The Things Never Said
by silver thorns
Summary: - Because he is a bastard blacksmith, and she is a lady, and this is how it was always meant to be. - Seven short fics for the Arya x Gendry Week currently running on tumblr, set between the second and third series. Contains underage almost-sex, angst, and naughty language. First prompt: Frenzy.
1. Frenzy

**_Edit 5/8/2013: proofread version, no major changes here :) _**

**So it's AryaxGendry week down in Tumblrland, and I couldn't resist. Unfortunately I only found out about it a couple of days ago, so entries will be a little rushed :(**

**Also, this is my first foray into smut, so sorry if it's horrible (Of course my first attempt would be angsty and underage). It should be noted that this chapter is probably the only one with actual explicitness going on. The rest will be a bit tamer (I think. I haven't planned anything at any rate.), so if you like you can just wait until tomorrow for the next one. That said, this is a Game of Thrones fic, soooo...**

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_**~Frenzy~**_

This isn't love, this feeling that rises up inside his chest and burns every time she looks at him. Not love. Not yet. It is too soon and she is too young, however easy it may be to forget. When he looks into her weary grey eyes, sees the edges that hard living and hunger have carved into the baby fat of youth, it is so easy to forget that she is just a child not yet bled. He forgets and craves, and it's only when she sulks or cocks her head, totally innocent to the dirty japes he tries to tell her, that the realisation hits him full force.

Awake, he despises the thought of it; every shiver at her touch, every lingering gaze as she stretches or bathes fought with utter revulsion. He is no monster, he tells himself, no cunt-starved wretch like the man that sired him. There is no beast in this blacksmith, and she is barely three and ten and a high born besides.

But asleep... asleep he has no leash, no fences to bind him. He can never remember the details, but he wakes at night with her name on his lips and his hand halfway down his trousers. The shame always follows moments after, crippling him with nausea. He'll choke back bile and swear to any gods that will listen that he is not his father's son.

So far his will has been iron, but tonight there is something different about her – the careless toss of her head, the way the firelight glitters in her eyes. Something is driving him to the edge and it makes him jittery and angry. Hot Pie has gone to piss (though it's clearly more unwillingness to sit through yet another fight between them than his bladder), and their tempers are flaring high and unchecked. She snarls like a wolf, crouching low to the ground, and experience has taught him that one wrong word will set her howling at him. Were it any other day, any other time, he would throw up his hands and laugh it off, but he is feeling reckless. So he shouts insults at her, at her mother and father, at her sister and brothers and stupid castles and servants and things he has never known and never will. Her eyes are cold as frost but she does not move, and this only drives him on. There is one thing he knows will snap her, one thing he has always been careful to avoid. It fills him with twisted glee to use it even with the self hatred that threatens to swallow him whole. Looking her dead in the eye, he spits on the bastard Snow and all he has dared accomplish, the venom in his voice only made stronger by the knowledge that mere Waters will never be enough for this girl with winter in her blood.

There is silence. Too late he fears he has gone too far. She'll leave him, throw him away like filth, and he deserves nothing less, _gods what has he_ -

The wind is knocked from his chest, and immediately a tiny fist slams into his face, followed by another and another until the corners of his vision go blurry and dark. He can barely breathe through the pain. For one wild instant he thinks she might just kill him instead; it's only after he tastes blood that he thinks to fight back, trying to throw her off. She is small and fast and slippery as a fish, but his strength gives him the upper hand. Finally he gets a grip on the scruff of her neck, wrenching her away from him long enough for his head to clear. The fighting does not cease however, so he crushes her to the ground with his bulk instead, pinning her hands above her head.

Her eyes burn into him with a fury that he has only seen when whispering promises of death, and once again he thinks he has gone too far. He's about to let her up, but then she writhes beneath him, face flushed and hair dishevelled, and the monster within roars into life. It is all too easy to imagine her naked and begging for release, plump little mouth open just for him. He leans forward, breathless.

Lost in his thoughts, his guard drops and suddenly her teeth are at his throat. There is a pause - barely a heartbeat where the skin is stretched tight in resistance - before it gives way all at once. Blood starts to run. His hand flies to his neck, and now free she rakes her nails down his shirt and shoves him away. Her eyes are wild, and she stumbles away from the camp and straight into Hot Pie. He seems just as stunned as she is, but all the blacksmith can think of is the little smear of blood at the corner of her lips. His mouth is dry.

Much, much later, when the fire is just a smouldering pile of ashes, she returns. She walks straight past him and drags her furs as far away from him as possible. When he tries to help her, she dos not meet his eye and flinches away from his touch. The air is heavy with unspoken words. Poor Hot Pie mumbles a goodnight to no one and rolls over. Night settles.

When he is sure the others are asleep, he slips away into the forest, going as far as he dares. No matter his anxiety, no matter the shreds of decency screaming for him to stop, he cannot shake the feel of her beneath him, breath hot on his neck. Trembling, he undoes the laces of his trousers and takes himself in hand for the first time in what feels like an age. His head tips back with a sigh. Eyes closed, he can see her furious eyes on him, her body writhing in his grasp. She had smelt of snow and sweat and the wilderness of the forest. He imagines her pink and wet, a core of molten heat between her legs, mouth parted in exertion, and _oh_ gods above...

He muffles a moan in the crook of his elbow, backing against a tree for support.

She would not be gentle though, this wolf of the North. She would fight against him every step of the way, overpowering him with sheer ferocity. He'd try to encourage her to be slow, but she would be impatient and needy, slamming herself down on top of him without ceremony. Between them his hands would be busy teasing and coaxing her to her peak, movement surer with every whimper torn from her throat. He digs his fingers into the wound at his neck and thinks of her biting him savagely in her passion. Instantly a jolt of pleasure shoots down his spine. His knees buckle, and as he falls he scrapes his back against the rough bark of the tree. Her nails would claw down his back as she rode him wildly, faster and _faster_ and _faster and-_

A strangled gasp.

For one blissful moment there is nothing but pleasure thrumming through his veins. It does not last. All too soon the guilt overtakes him, increasing with every pained throb of his neck and the cooling seed on his hand. Just another monster after all. He has not cried since his mother died, but he is sobbing now, a broken bastard blacksmith with nothing but his own loathing to keep him company.

When he finally returns to the camp, Arya does not stir. There is some blessing in that, at least.


	2. Abandon

**Time for round two of AxG week, this time featuring the prompt 'Abandon'. These stories are all linked, by the by. I could've gone for oneshots, but it felt better like this.**

**Thank you everyone who's read/favourited/followed/reviewed so far, you're all utterly lovely and I hope all your OTPs become canon :) (Hopefully Gendrya is one of them XD). I probably should have mentioned this before, but this is purely TV-verse because I am a heathen and haven't read the books. Hope that isn't too much of a bother! After writing this and looking over what's planned for the rest of the prompts, I've decided to change the genre to not-actually-as-much-angst-as-I-first-thought. I'm also thinking about changing the title, but that's currently up in the air.  
**

**Anyway, without further ado I present:**

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_**~Abandon~**_

Something is different, and Gendry knows it is only a matter of time before she demands him gone from their party. Too much has been said, too much to forget or forgive, and the knowledge eats away at him. The Tickler's rats were better than this, he thinks – at least then it wasn't his fault. But this is his punishment justly deserved for giving in to the beast. He is a bastard blacksmith and she is a lady, and this is how it was always meant to be.

It's just...

It's just he wishes she was not acting so strangely.

Arya has taken to rising early, things already packed, and walking far ahead from them. She does not speak or look at him at all, and only gives short commands to Hot Pie when setting up camp. It's wrong, so horribly wrong, and he does not know how to fix it. She is meant to be fire and biting frosts, not this shell of a person that seems to drift on the outskirts of existence. It was not worth it, not for a few brief moments of lust and heat alone in the forest. Nothing is worth this.

He stares morosely at the campfire and contemplates throwing himself in.

There is movement beside him, and he glances up in surprise, heart in his throat. Finally she's come to pass judgment. Gendry does not know which would be worst – death or banishment – but finds himself craving both just as eagerly. But it is not wrath made flesh that greets him, just a round, sweaty face and concerned eyes.

"Oh."

Back to the flames, then. It would not be quick or clean, but it might burn away this awful perversion from his bones. Beside him, Hot Pie is settling himself down, shifting to get comfortable. Some abstract part of the blacksmith wonders how he can still be so fat with meals so scarce. It isn't fair of him, he knows that, but such casual cruelty seems to be a running theme these days.

"It weren't right, what you said about her family."

"I know."

They sit in silence, the crackling of the fire impossibly loud between them.

"Then why'd you say it?"

_Because I wanted to fight her. Because I needed to know that I can make her feel anything at all. Because every time she looks at me, she makes me feel like I'm someone I'm not. _He does not say any of this. He doesn't say anything at all, but he can feel the boy's eyes on him, and he gets the feeling that he might as well have screamed it to the heavens. Shame rises uncomfortably up the back of his neck.

"It can't go on like this forever."

"I know."

Though nothing else is said that night, he can't shake the feeling that something significant has just taken place. When he finally lays down to sleep, he sees Hot Pie still sitting in front of the fire, stirring the embers into life.

That afternoon, as they break for lunch, Hot Pie decides that they cannot travel anymore. He tells them their food is running low, shows the empty bags, pleads sore feet and blisters, and even from where Gendry sits a safe distance away from them he can see the way Arya's shoulders tense in anger. It is the first sign of emotion she has shown in days. _Not a shell after all. _He's surprised that Hot Pie is holding ground, but despite the look of pure terror he insists that they can't go on without hunting. She snarls and spits, inches away from skewering him, and for a moment the world seems to hold its breath. Suddenly there's a whirl of movement, and Arya has stormed off into the trees with a knife and bloody murder on her face. Hot Pie looks ready to faint, but he is not done just yet; turning on Gendry, he asks the blacksmith to find water and fish for supper. He does not relish the idea of it – it's a mile back the way they came, for a start – but there is something almost wily in his friend's expression, and so he finds himself trudging through the undergrowth, lugging buckets and their gear behind him.

"_No sense letting the water go to waste," Hot Pie had said. "Might as well wash some of our clothes too." At Gendry's look, he'd hastily added, "I-i-if you don't mind, of c-c-c-course."_

However strong his reservations had been, Gendry can't stop the little sigh of contentment as he slips into the cool water and wades into the middle of the stream. The sun is strong against his back, the clothes drying on the bank, and as he feels the wind ruffling his hair, he thinks perhaps all is not as bad as it seems. No matter the countless horrors Westeros has to offer, there is a kind of perfection here and all he can do is bask in its glory. _And,_ he thinks, spotting a flash of silver scales, _catch some supper._

He is by no means a good fisherman; what little experience he possesses comes from the rare afternoons off, playing with the other boys down at the sea front. String and wires and the odd feather if they were lucky, and they lost far more hooks than they'd ever caught fish, but it'd been some of the best days of his life. There'd been one boy in particular who possessed a magic touch. Fish seemed to throw themselves at his feet in their haste to be caught – he'd said it was the lure he'd made with his own golden hair that got them so excited – and his name was... gods above, what _was _it? Lor-something? Waters. Bastard like him, only his father had admitted it when he was born. Some petty lord that'd had one too many drinks and no sight of his wife for half a year. Loran, _that_ was it. Loran Waters, wanted to take the Black when he was old enough, but there'd been a fight and his golden hair had turned red with blood.

Gendry stares down at the lure in his hands, the yellow feathers shining in the sunlight. Shaking the memories from his head, he casts the line as far away as he can and waits. To his surprise it doesn't take long, and by the time the sun has started to set he's filled the bucket with more than enough fish to last a week. He packs his things ready to head back, but before he does he spots the lure from the corner of his eye. It's soggy and drab now with water, feathers hanging limply from the cord. His hand drifts towards his head, and before he knows what he's doing, he's ripped out a few strands and tied them round the feathers, stark black against gold. Hesitating a few moments (this is beyond stupid, Arya would laugh her arse off if she found out) he mumbles a quick 'thank you', tosses the lure into the stream, and hurries back to camp.

Somehow the gear feels lighter this time.

The night finds Arya and Gendry stretched out on the grass, watching the stars in companionable silence.

She'd returned shortly after he had, arms laden with rabbits and birds. Apparently venting her frustration on the local wildlife had done wonders for her mood, and she'd even helped them prepare the food. There was still something between the two of them, some wall not yet breached, but no longer did he face the icy silence of the past few days. Hot Pie had prepared something more akin to a king's banquet than a traveller's rations, and all of them had eaten themselves fit to bursting, laughing and chucking scraps at each other when getting up was too much of a hassle. It had been a long time since any of them had felt so happy. But the night could not last forever, and eventually Hot Pie had gone to sleep on the far side of the fire. There had been something odd about the way he'd looked at Gendry, some secret message he was meant to understand. _You know what to do,_ it seemed to say.

And so here they are, the night sky above him and the grass tickling his ankles. He turns to her, and falls a little bit more – _not in love, she is a lady and only a child, not in love_ – when he sees the way her eyes are bright as the stars. The words are thick and clumsy on his tongue, and when he says them they seem to stumble and trip up on themselves, but he says it all the same. _It can't go on like this forever._

"I'm sorry."

She does not look at him, her entire body still as the grave. He prays he has not said something that will ruin this moment between them, prays it with all his heart that he can fix this rift between them before it is too late.

Arya turns away.

And then she throws herself at him, hitting and biting and scratching and cursing him, and with every drop of blood he feels his heart swell. His wilding wolf home at last. When he manages to catch her, he pulls her into a bear hug and squeezes her close. She is far too small and his ribs are aching horribly, and all of it is so _Arya_ he starts laughing breathlessly into her hair. She's squirming against him, but she does not pull away and he dares to hope she's returning his embrace. A mumble comes from somewhere in his chest, and it is so muffled by his shirt and petulance that it takes him a few tries to understand what she's saying.

"Stupid bull," and "don't you dare leave," and "say that about Jon again and I'll make Hot Pie eat you".

He laughs all the harder.


	3. Bound

**This rather short chapter is dedicated to all the fat boy sidekicks that get left by the wayside when fate comes a-calling.**

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_**~Bound~**_

In the great songs and stories, there are only two destinies for a boy called Hot Pie. The first is a sudden death like Lommy, and even the mere thought of it sends rivers of cold sweat down his back (some nights he can still see the blood bubbling at his lips, Needle piercing his throat easy as a knife through butter). The other is to just fade away into the background, left behind by the heroes who no longer need him. He doesn't _want_ to leave this odd pair he's come to care for... but then he doesn't want to die either; Hot Pie is not disloyal or entirely without honour, but he _is _a coward, and he _is_ terrified of a painful death.

Arya and Gendry are destined for great things, he knows it in his soul. They will sing songs of the Wolf and her Bull long after their bones are dust and their real names are forgotten. He can see it in the way Gendry looks at her, in the way Arya does not yet look at him. There will be no songs for Hot Pie, though, not for the orphaned baker boy with no animal to his name. But it is not all bad, not really. For now there is still a place for him in this rag tag band, and he takes pride in it, no matter how little they might notice it.

He may not have the fangs of a wolf or the strength of a bull, but he knows which berries are best this time of year, where to find the right herbs to season the game they catch. He knows the power of food, and when the tempers flare and the bonds holding this little group together are stretched to breaking, he is there to bring them back with fresh bannock and sweetened biscuits when he can spare the flour.

It's not easy being angry on a full stomach.

He will not be with them forever, though. There is something on the horizon, some great event that will change their relationship forever and when it comes it won't matter how many pastries he bakes. They will split and grow and never fit quite the same way again, and slow, fat Hot Pie will have no one to turn to when winter comes for them. He has already made his decision to leave them at the first opportunity he gets - not because he is eager to leave them, far from it; but because if not soon, then never. He has never had much, and never had enough of an imagination to want much more. Just somewhere safe with an oven and the smell of bread always in the air. But being near them, so close to the touch of destiny surrounding them, he has started longing for adventures of his own.

They will not sing songs of Hot Pie the baker and his bread of good will. Some secret part of him wishes they would.

He thinks again of poor Lommy, of Yoren and the prisoner that had told him to stare death in the face. No. Better the hearth and the dough. Better a quiet life than no life at all.


	4. Haven

**Todays prompt is Haven, and I hope you like it :) there's a bit more going on in this one, you'll be glad to know.**

**I'm afraid that this is probably going to be my last entry for AxG Week, as I am meant to be getting ready to move out and get a job. Summer is over and winter is coming for realsies. BUT that doesn't mean I've abandoned this! I've got the last three chapters planned out and ready to be written, and this fic will be updated and finished eventually, it just won't be as timely as these other chapters have been. I'll do my best to keep you all posted, and there should only be a week between updates, gods be good (I might even give in and do them all tomorrow! (I probably won't, though)).**

**So thank you to everyone that's been reading, and everyone that's said nice things about this, and thank you especially to the person that came up with this idea in the first place!**

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_**~Haven~**_

Sometimes Arya dreams of once more being a little girl back at home in Winterfell, arguing with Sansa and chasing Brom around the castle. She dreams of her mother scolding her and her father trying and failing to comfort her, of Robb dragging her down from the scaffolding and Jon telling her stories of dragons and adventure beyond the Narrow Sea, and then the dream shifts and changes and she's back in King's Landing again, the crowd baying for blood, her sister screaming for mercy. The smell of sweat and smoke from Yoren's jerkin is overpowering, and she is _drowning_ in her father's _blood-_

A pair of blue eyes in the darkness, fingertips grazing her outstretched hand.

_Gendry_.

It takes a few moments for the scream clawing its way up her lungs to calm and settle, and a few more still before she can smell the fresh nighttime air again. She grips his fingers like a lifeline, and he says her name softly until the screaming of the crowd passes too. This is not the first time it has happened, and it will never be the last, but he is always there without fail and she can't understand why. He'll leave her one day, she's sure of it, sick and tired of her endless nightmares. She will wake up one night, the smell of blood thick in her throat, and there will be no blue eyes to bring her back, no low, steadying voice to remind her who she is, _where _she is. This is something she has come to know from living in a world where death is not fair with the lives it takes.

She knows this, yet as she listens to his murmuring and feels him rubbing the back of her hand soothingly, she allows herself to forget the truth and thinks instead that it would not be so terrible to wake every day to sky blue eyes.

She squeezes his hand, and reassured, Gendry nods and within moments has fallen back asleep. He trusts her to know her own mind. If the nightmares come for her again, he will be there. Usually Arya would fall back to sleep, lulled by the sound of his steady breaths, but this time there is a restlessness in her mind. Something had come to her in that dream, something important. The sheer weight of it is heavy on her mind.

She tilts her head back and stares at the sky. The sun has just begun to rise, gold and pink edged clouds drifting lazily against an inky black background. Her mind starts to wander, and she fancies herself one of them, high above everything. The winds would blow her towards Winterfell, and though the distance is still impossibly huge - _it feels like they've been walking for years already, and Rickon will be old and grey with a beard ten feet long by the time they reach the castle_ - for a cloud, it would take but a moment.

She'd float across the fields and forests, past the weirwood and beyond the hill she had rolled down with Nymeria and Lady (Sansa had been furious to find her precious wolf covered in grass and mud), and onwards until at last she saw the tall grey walls of her home. Robb would be up there with Jory, checking up on the guards that manned the castle walls. In the courtyard Jon would be helping Bran with his bowmanship, Rickon chasing chickens nearby, and she'd have to scoot out of the way to avoid the stray arrows. She'd see Sansa strolling through the keep, cooing non-stop over any handsome man that catches her eye. And there, just over there, heads bent together as shamelessly as love-struck children, would be her parents. Her mother would be giggling behind her hand, and her father would smile and brush the hair from her face like he has done so many times before.

And it's then that Arya remembers what has been bothering her.

There is no end to this nightmare she is living.

There is no rest.

There will never be a day when her father is still alive.

It will never go back to the way it was. Even if every name she whispers night after night lay dead before her feet, it will not bring him back. She is stuck forever with a broken family and Jon half a world away and Sansa trapped and Bran crippled and there is _nothing she can do_-

A pair of blue eyes watch her in the darkness, fingers light against her cheek.

Gendry pulls her close and whispers her name in her ear until it fills up the spaces in her head and pushes everything else out. She thinks she might be crying - is mortified to think of how much snot she must be smearing onto his collar - but he does not let her go. He rocks her and strokes her back, and eventually the sobbing ceases and the night closes in.

In the morning she awakes in his arms with the smell of frying fish on the air. Hot Pie is preparing the morning meal, and immediately her mouth starts to water in anticipation. There is no lingering sadness, she is surprised to find, no dampening of her mood. Instead there is only the rumble of her belly and the uncomfortable feeling of dried mucous smeared across her cheek. Her fears had come true, then. Burning with embarrassment, she scrubs violently at her face and prays the boys did not see her. In her haste to clean away the evidence, she accidentally drives her elbow into Gendry's chest, who jolts up with a wheeze of agony.

Once they've eaten, he chucks the bones at her in retribution and dashes behind Hot Pie, using him as a shield. Though the boy's bulk is impressive in size it's not enough to stop her, and she grins her wolfish grin. With every shout and squeal of terror, she can hear their unspoken words thrumming through her veins.

_You are not alone_.

The nightmares will return, the heartbreak and awful bleakness close behind. There will be a night sometime in the future where Gendry will not be there to chase away the darkness, a morning where Hot Pie's cooking will be little more than a memory. This she understands. But not today. Today she has a stupid blue eyed bull and his flabby sidekick to fight.


	5. Beauty

**Hey guys, guess who's back! Now that life has started to settle, this story can finally be finished! :D Here's day five of AxG Week, hope you like it :)  
**

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_**~Beauty~**_

Today, Arya thinks, is a beautiful day. There is rain, yes, and they are huddled in some tiny, miserable cave and shivering so much their backs ache, and yes there's no good wood for the fire and it's horrible and smokey and making tears run down her face, and yes, alright, she twisted her ankle a few miles back before the rain hit and now it's swollen and frankly horrifying to look at. It does not matter to her, though, because the boys are turned away, huddling as close as they can to the fire, and there is a secret hidden in her hands.

She parts her fingers slightly, allowing herself another look. It's a bad idea, really - her constant sneak peeks might attract their attention - but her eyes search it out all the same. A flash of fire red against muddied hands. They'd been running for shelter when she'd seen it out of the corner of her eye, and with the wind and rain howling all around her and Gendry's back fading into the distance, she had paused to rescue it from the brambles and tuck it inside her jerkin for safe-keeping.

She looks again.

At first, she'd been unsure of why she'd taken it - she'd never had much interest in that sort of thing, had outright hated it at one point, but something had driven her, something beyond her control.

Another look. This time she opens her hands fully, gazing down with something akin to fondness for the little red flower she cradles so carefully in her hands. She understands now what had drawn her to it. It's so obvious when she looks at that exact shade of crimson, turning and twisting it to catch the firelight. Such a little thing, and not a true beauty, she knows; the petals are crumpled around the edges, and there are spots and faded colours on one of the leaves. It doesn't matter, though, not to her. The vibrant red sings out in defiance against the imperfections and the rain.

She hopes Sansa is alright. She hopes against reason that the Lannisters haven't dulled her colours, that Joffrey hasn't hurt her. She hopes her sister hasn't forgotten how to smile.

Arya curls her fingers around the flower again and presses it against her heart.

* * *

He watches her from the corner of his eye. His gaze sweeps over the curve of her back and aches with longing and disgust. She can never know. He has been strong - it has not happened again since that night alone in the woods, no matter how the dreams plagued him, the memory of her teeth against his flesh stirred with every glimpse of her mouth. She can never know what happened that night, nor what threatens to consume him every night before or since. Arya Stark is a lady and a child, and he will _never_ be worthy of her.

So why then had he stopped for it?

He tears his gaze away from her and looks down at the little bundle in his hand. Feathers and holly sprigs, that's all they were. They'd been tangled up together, protected from the rain by the brambles that had finally led them to shelter. He'd taken them immediately, sheltering them from the rain and Hot Pie's curious eyes.

She can never know.

And yet there is no denying that what he holds in his hands is a bouquet. Not a traditional one, perhaps... there are no flowers and ferns in sight, and the only plant is covered in sharp spikes, but then Arya is not a traditional lady. She is wild and free as the birds whose feathers he's found, as resilient and fierce as the holly. Winter is coming, but the wild things live on.

His mother, long ago before the sickness had taken her, had told him of how she'd always found comfort in the bright red and green of the holly sprigs, and had hung them around the house in winter to chase away the despair. He wants to tell her that she is the same for him. Every time he sees her, the uncertainty of their lives seems a little more bearable, the winds a little less cold. It is not love, not yet, but he wants to spend an eon by her side if she would only let him, to bask in her roughened beauty and give her all he has to give. Together in her castle they would live, she in furs and hunting leathers and he forging her fangs and claws. In the day they would hunt and camp and swim in the forest streams, and in the night they would feast on Hot Pie's cooking and slip away together - to his straw mattress, her feather bed, a nest of leaves in the woods - and explore each other with hearts laid bare.

But then, that is it, isn't it? Even if she was older, even if she was not so consumed by vengeance, she would still be a lady, and he a bastard blacksmith with no titles or armies or fine things to give her. He realises this and his heart falls, but it is a familiar ache now – an old friend that keeps him company after dreams of hope and freedom in her frozen homeland. It is stupid to think this way, stupid to long for a life he will never have and yet he is powerless to stop it.

It is then, staring into the flames, that Gendry makes his decision.

With one last look at her back and the ridiculous bundle of crap in his hands, he hurls it into the fire. He cannot live like this much longer. In his mind he can see only two options before him; a life spent pining away in misery, every day a torture - or he can leave now before it is too late and he is bound to her forever. The thought that he could tell her what he feels when she is old enough to be longed for does not cross his mind - all bastards learn their place long before they learn to speak.

She can never know.


	6. Calm

**Aaand it's time for another exciting chapter, and the return of mega angst (I could only hold it back for so long!) There may be another long wait before the final chapter, Drug, is uploaded, as I'm having issues with where it's going right now. Sorry about all this, and double sorry for it being such a short chapter! Seems when I type rather than write, I lose 1000 or so words in the process...  
**

* * *

**_~Calm~_**

"Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Hound. Polliver. The Mountain."

A thin voice in the night, almost drowned out by the snores of their captors. The captors Gendry has chosen to stay with.

"Joffrey. Cersei. llyn Payne. The Hound. Polliver. The Mountain."

That he has picked the very men that almost killed them makes her upset. That he has also decided that her and her family could never be enough fills her with a cold fury. How does he not see that she doesn't care about his heritage, couldn't care less who his father was or what titles he has? Bastards make the best boys, she has found - but then it seems bastards always leave her in the end. She thinks of Jon and _hurts.  
_

But Water Dancers feel no pain. Water Dancers do not know how to grieve.

"Joffrey. Cersei. llyn Payne. The Hound. Polliver. The Mountain."

With every name she lets the hate fill her, consuming her until there is nothing else left. She'd woken up with the roar of the crowds and the scent of blood heavy in the air, and there had been no blue eyes to anchor her, no voice to calm her racing heart. Alone she'd choked back screams, alone she'd surfaced from the tide, and alone is safer than anything else. You cannot be left by someone who is already gone.

Where friendship had once saved her, now it is hate that keeps her heart beating.

"Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Hound. Polliver. The Mountain."

What a fool. She has allowed herself to be seduced by the hope he stirs in her, and in doing so has been distracted from her purpose. Love will not bring her father back, and so she has no need for it at all. She'd loved her family, and now they are torn apart, maybe forever. She'd loved Syrio, and he had died. She'd loved Hot Pie, and he had left. She'd loved Gendry and...

"Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Hound. Polliver. The Mountain."

She covers her heart in layers of ice, and vows never to love again. There is no one but herself she can trust, and no one but herself to save her when the nightmares come. She is alone, and that is how it should always be. Like a lake, she is calm and steady; she fails to realise that though the surface of the water is still, beneath it the undercurrent rages on.

"Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Hound. Polliver. The Mountain."

* * *

When Melisandre comes for him in the morning, voice sweet with honey and false promises, she argues to keep him safe - not out of love, she convinces herself, but because the Brotherhood had welcomed him with open arms and then given him up in a heartbeat.

_See?_ she thinks to herself. _Love and trust can only end in betrayal._ But she is still a child no matter how she tries to forget, and it is a child's love that fights for him.

_I could've been your family. I would've kept you safe. I never would've let her take you. I don't care if you're a bastard blacksmith or a knight or a king, you're still my stupid Bull._

_Please come back._

She watches him being taken away, and her frozen heart is breaking.


	7. Drug

**Hey guys! Here it is at last, the final instalment of AxG Week, split into three chapters. I was going to upload them separately, but decided not to because I love you all and honestly this is already far too late for such shennanigans. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you so so much for reading, reviewing, favouriting, alerting, and everything else you've done to show your support and interest. Seriously, you guys are amazing. I can't even.**

**So yes, this is goodbye for now from me, feel free to leave a review on the way out.**

**And a three, two, whun...**

* * *

**_~Drug~_**

There is a man locked deep in the dungeons of some godforsaken rock that is ever drowning in an ocean wracked by storms, and no matter how he tries he can find no peace.

When he closes his eyes, he sees the red woman with terrifying beauty and words of poisoned honey. He is bound and naked and ashamed, and the knowledge that he has again given into this monster beneath his skin is too much to bear.

When he sleeps, he sees _her_, more wolf than girl, with storm-cloud eyes and her voice crying out to him. _I can be your family_, she tells him, and it is all he has ever wanted to hear, but it is too late, _too_ _late,_ and he has already abandoned her before the words have even left her mouth.

When he is awake, there are only prison bars. Sometimes the strange knight Davos comes to speak with him. Sometimes he is fed. Water trickles through hidden cracks in the wall and his mind is unravelling with every _drip._

A rat's hungry gaze glitters in the torchlight.

Gendry will die soon, he can feel it in his bones. No good has ever come of a noble asking questions, but this time it will not be the Hand that pays the price; he can still feel the bite of the leeches and the awful feeling of his blood being slowly drained away, and knows it is only a matter of time before Melisandre comes back for the rest. But for all the misfortune he faces, he does not regret trying to leave Arya. He knows this feeling, this all-consuming desire that sweeps through his body and leaves him breathless. Above all else, he knows how dangerous it is.

When he was young and first learning his trade, he had been obsessed by the forge's fire, drawn to the flames as they danced and leapt and crackled in the smokey room. They had whispered to him, beckoning and seductive, and what hope had a child when faced with such beauty? That first night he'd kept watch over it and fed it when it got too low, fascinated by the changes that overtook it – from the deep roar of the working day to the gentle flicker of the evening – and _oh_ how his fingers had itched to feel the heat. His master had caught him in the morning and beaten him for wasting fuel, but he hadn't cared. The next night found him crouched over the fire, and the night after that, and the night after that, again and again until his body was black and blue with bruises, the firelight burning in his eyes.

A week later, his master had sat him down.

He'd taken off his shirt and heavy gloves, and there had been a mess of scars covering his body, the skin angry and red in the glow of the fire. Gendry had been disgusted; for all the horrors that Flea Bottom held, he'd never seen such a sight. He'd started and tried to run away, but Mott had been resolute, forcing the boy to look and touch every knotted twist of flesh. They'd been rough and cool beneath his fingers and, despite himself, he'd felt the stirrings of doubt. Had his flames truly done this – the same gentle ones that sang and danced for him each night?

"This is what happens, boy," the man had said, eyes locked onto his, "when you get too close. It cannot be tamed, it cannot be kept, and it will not hesitate to burn you alive."

And then with the boy sick to his stomach, his master had taken his small hands and thrust them into the fire. Only for a few moments – a craftsman's greatest tools is his hands – but enough to make him scream himself hoarse.

It was a long time before he was able to look at it again.

That had been many years ago, but despite Mott's lesson and his own impressive collection of burns, the fire calls to him even so. He craves it with the same reckless abandon he feels when he thinks of _her_, but knows all too well what happens when enchanted boys get too close to the flames.

Water drips through cracks in the wall. No one brings him food.

He closes his eyes and sees Melisandre, fire made flesh, and knows that she will burn him alive without a second thought. He thinks of Arya and feels the bite of winter in the breeze that blows through the bars of his cell.

_I can be your family._

It is better this way, he tells himself. Safer. This is the only way he can be happy. He wonders how long he can go on lying to himself.

The rat scurries over his hand.


	8. Hope

**_~Hope~_**

There is no sense of time down here, but many, many drips later, Gendry is quite sure he's going insane. The boy is moments away from wishing the rat would just get it over with and eat him when Davos comes with a key, a boat, and a plan.

When he hears the plan, he almost misses his cell.


	9. Freedom

**_~Freedom~_**

Gendry breathes in deeply.

The smell of salt coats everything the sea touches, crusting it with white dust that sparkles in the afternoon light. Above, the gulls are circling, calling out to each other across the vast emptiness of the sky. One of them angles sharply, plummeting down into the water and sending sprays leaping into the air. For a single, perfect moment in time it looks as though the sea and sky have switched places, and the gull swims beneath the waves. Seconds later it rises to the surface, bobbing along gently beside his boat.

He rows.

It's something he's been doing for a while now, rowing. He has never done it before and doubts he ever will again, but despite his lack of experience he feels he's starting to get good at it – there's a rhythm to it that soothes his nerves and reminds him a little of smithing. When he manages to forget that he doesn't know how to swim or the ever-looming threat of pursuit, it's almost relaxing. Just steady, repetitive movements and the hushed murmur of water lapping at the oars. He's almost content to stay like this forever; that is, until the next alarming pitch of the boat or a glimpse of some pale and massive shape drifting beneath the waves reminds him of just how out of his habitat he truly is.

And for all the calm that washes over him, there is no denying that he drifting along in a tiny boat in the middle of the ocean, and he has no idea where to go next (or indeed how to find it – one endless strip of water looks pretty much the same as the rest to him). He can't go back to the Brotherhood, not after how quickly they'd sold him out. King's Landing? They'd kill him before he reached the gates. The Wall...? He shies away from it, shaking his head. _Too far North,_ he thinks._ Too close to... it's too far away._ To some tiny and forgettable village then, to a future of monotony and a slow, anonymous death. And why not? That was all his life had been, once upon a time, and he'd never minded it then. What more is there for someone like him?

Back in Flea Bottom, he'd never dwelled much on the future – there were too many uncertainties, too many orders to keep him occupied. He'd eaten when hungry, slept when tired, and never thought of much beyond the forge for his whole life. Hells, even the corner at the end of the street had seemed a world away. A commoner doesn't have the time nor the luxury to afford dreams. After all, what good did dreams do Loran, killed before he'd ever even glimpsed the North? What good did dreams do his mother, who'd spent her last breath pining for the father he'd never known?

The oars still for a moment, the sudden rush of emotions overwhelming. How long had he been waiting, wondering who his father was? Of all the possibilities... he had never thought that such a thing could happen to him. Gendry the armourer's apprentice, yes. Gendry the Bull, fine. But Gendry the King's bastard son?

He shivers and stares at his calloused commoner's fingers and dirty commoner's nails. Of all the men he has ever known, Robert Baratheon is the only one he truly fears becoming. He clenches his hands and draws royal blood, and it makes him sick. At last he sees the true form of the monster that lurks in the darkest corners of his mind, the one that ruined his relationship with Arya and almost got him killed by Melisandre. He wants to think that he will never give in to it again, but knows that it is only a matter of time. It is a hopeless task to keep the beast at bay, but he cannot do anything else – he is a bull, _not_ a stag. He prays every day that this is true.

A gull squawks at him, and he shakes himself from his thoughts and starts to row again. He can't stay here forever. He'll find land first. Land and landmarks, and go on from there. Farmsteads litter the countryside of Westeros, it won't be that difficult to find one, and everyone needs a blacksmith. It'll be stable. Reliable. No adventures, no imminent death, just work and a bed and maybe one day a wife that won't remind him of her. Restlessness stirs in his gut.

He sighs.

No, that isn't the life for him. Not anymore. Since leaving King's Landing, since meeting Arya, everything has changed. The thought of spending an eternity working without hope or aspiration, so far removed from the rest of the world, fills him with dread. Gendry has seen too much to ever be content with so little, has learned to want more than what he has been given. He dreams of the future now – a place in Winterfell by Arya's side, a home with her and her family. _Their_ family. He wants it more than anything he has ever known.

His mother told him that love is planning for the future, and he thinks he is beginning to understand. Alone as he is, as close to death as he was, there is no denying what he feels for her now. It sings as clear and pure as the song of the anvil, and everything he has done to sabotage it is so completely and utterly stupid that he winces to think of it. It was selfish to leave, selfishness disguised as martyrdom, and he only hopes that it is not too late.

It is here and now, in a rowboat in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by seagulls and ominous giants that may or may not be thinking about eating him, that he vows to find her, to pledge his life and undying loyalty to her. She will call him a stupid bull, probably severely wound him, and he will laugh and never leave her side again. As her lover or as her friend, he will stay with her until the sea dries up and the fish learn to fly.

First, though, he has to find land.


End file.
